


The Intermediate Testaments

by doodlejack



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: shenannigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2017-12-21 01:23:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doodlejack/pseuds/doodlejack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Will is assigned to a case, the murderer does not take kindly to it, and starts modeling their victims after Will and Hannibal. Crawford sees fit to have an armed guard assigned to Hannibal at all times for protection. After all, Will is a 'capable' agent of the FBI, but Hannibal is a civilian, so a guard he gets. This is their story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! Welcome to my humble fanfiction! Please, sit back, relax, and read the shit outta this thing because I've slaved over it.
> 
> Will there be sex? Yes. Lot's of it. But LATER. I have to at least *try* and develop characters and plot.  
> This is a story with sex in it, not a sex with story in it. No, that didn't make sense, but it's ok.
> 
> You can find me at [My Tumblr Yay](http://doodle--jack.tumblr.com)
> 
> By the way, if you're like, kind of thinking about commenting but on the fence because you don't know or think I'll care let me just tell you that I really do and I want to hear things even if it's negative. Seriously.
> 
> Happy reading!

“Will, Dr. Lecter, come in, please,” Jack Crawford opens his office door and beckons the two inside. “Take a seat,” he gestures to the chairs opposite his desk and settles into his own.

“In light of recent events,” Crawford steeples his fingers in front of him, “it has been decided that a full-time bodyguard is going to be assigned to Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal blinks with a slight frown, “And why is that?”

“Dr. Lecter, _Jezebel_ went from young men and women picked up from bars to killing in couples. Single college students became males resembling Will and with a consulting professional somewhere close, be it a physician, a psychiatrist, even a dentist.” Jack leans forwards in his chair. “It is painfully obvious, that she hates the fact that you and Will currently work her case. She is sending a message; it’s my job to reply. And I think Will agrees with me, don’t you, Will?”

Will adjusts his glasses, “It’s… a definite possibility. She feels threatened and she’s covering it up by challenging us.” He fiddles nervously with a loose string on the sleeve of his jacket. “But that doesn’t mean we’re targets.”

“Will is correct. She is not exhibiting any intentions aside from threats, and she’s beginning to be sloppy with her killings. A body guard may not be needed,” says Hannibal.

“Be that as it may,” Crawford stands and walks towards his office door. “The evidence still points to you and Will as potential victims. And while Will is a capable FBI agent, you are still a civilian, and I must take necessary actions. So, I must insist.”

Hannibal considers this for a moment before nodding once. He and Will move to follow Crawford out of his office. “I request a sort of trial run, before anything is made permanent.”

 “Give it a week, maybe two; hopefully we’ll have caught her by then.” Crawford leads them to the Physical Training Department of the building. “Where’s Mark?” He asks a trainee in passing.

“Charlie? At this hour, sir, your best bet is the gym.”

They are lead down another hallway, past locker rooms and through two large double doors where a group of trainees in workout clothes cluster around a boxing ring.

“Disperse!” he commands and they all leave in a hurry, but the two men fighting remain unaffected. Both wear large, protective headgear, but one wears red gloves, and the other black. Both are very talented fighters, weaving and striking in a violent dance. Red Gloves moves wickedly fast, darting around their larger, much stronger opponent with ease. Before Jack, Hannibal, and Will reach the ring, the larger man in black gloves feints a kick, and sends their fist into the other’s face. They go down and Crawford shows no sign of stopping the fight, as if to show off the skills of his man.

“C’mon, get up! I know you got more in you than that” The towering man booms and Red Gloves uncovers their face from folded arms face to reveal a new intensity in their eyes, and a chin coated in blood from a busted lip.

The smaller man leaps up, ducks under a swing, blocks a jab, and rocks their challenger’s head back with a deathly-accurate uppercut. He staggers back, and Red Gloves sweeps the legs and engages in a leg-lock that has the larger man tapping out in moments.

“Well that was unexpected,” Will muses and Hannibal gives only a small nod.

The winner helps the loser up and the two remove their gloves to shake hands. Only now do they exit the ring to address their audience.

 “Gentlemen, meet Charlie Mark. Charlie, as you probably know, this is Dr. Lecter and Special Agent Will Graham.”

“Hello,” Will extends a hand to the larger man.

He only chuckles, “Sorry, I’m not Mr. Mark, but this one here is _Ms._ Mark.” At this exact moment, the smaller man removes their helmet to reveal that they are in fact, a woman.

“Oh,” Will’s eyes go wide and he coughs to hide the initial embarrassment and the corners of Hannibal’s mouth twitch up just a bit. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize you’re a… Well I mean…”

Charlie Mark waves her hand dismissively and presses a towel to her split lip. “Don’t worry about it. That’s not the first time that’s happened and it certainly won’t be the last. I’m Charlotte Tabitha Mark, I’ve heard a lot about you two,” she pulls off her gloves to shake Hannibal’s hand firmly, and then Will’s, who now refuses to look at her.

“Yes, I’m sure you have, Ms. Mark if you’ll walk with us for just a moment. I’m sure you’d like to go clean up but this will only take a second.”

“Of course, sir, what is it?” She dabs at the blood from her lip with the towel and the other man from the ring leaves them to their business.

“Ms. Mark, I’m assigning you as body guard to Dr. Lecter, you begin tomorrow,” Crawford tells her.

She blinks in surprise but quickly recovers herself, “O-of course, sir, understood. Is there anything else?”

“For now, go clean up. That was sloppy, letting that hit land.”

Her lip twitches in annoyance but she nods anyway, “Yessir, it was, I’ll have to be more alert if I’m to do my job properly. Now if you’ll excuse me,” she nods to the other two men and leaves for the locker room.

 

They watch her go for a moment and Hannibal speaks, “Ms. Mark seems a little… out of place, in this profession, don’t you think?”

 “Yes she does, but she’s good, really good. Better than most,” Crawford tells him and waves them back towards the gym doors. “If you’ll wait for her to be a bit more presentable, you can brief her on whatever it is you need her to know.”

“Very well,” Hannibal adjusts his suit to sit with Will and Jack in a few chairs outside of the gym.

A while later Charlie walks out of the Ladies’ Locker room freshly showered and dressed in hip-hugging high-waist slacks and a blue blouse, “Agent Crawford, may I have a word in private with you? There’s no one else in here, it’ll be very quick.” Crawford nods and follows her back into the locker room, leaving Will and Hannibal alone.

“Dr. Lecter how do you feel about all this?” Will asks after resolving for himself that Charlie wore a very effective sports bra for him to mistake her for a man given the ampleness of her chest.

Hannibal thinks for a moment and replies carefully, “I can’t say I find her very necessary, but if Agent Crawford insists, who am I to argue?”

Will smiles, “I don’t think I’d find it particularly enjoyable, having a stranger following me around all day.”

“We’ll have to see, Agent Mark may prove to be a valuable asset.”

 

In the locker room, Crawford crosses his arms, “Is there a problem, Charlie?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, I just didn’t realize I had been demoted to babysitter,” Charlie snaps and plants her hands on her hips angrily.

“You can be demoted to ‘fired’ if you’d like,” Crawford replies icily. “Both Mr. Graham and Dr. Lecter are potentially in danger.”

Charlie snorts very un-lady like, “Last I checked, I was just a little above personal guard duty.”

“That’s not yours to decide,” Crawford tells her. “I need you on this because you’re one of the best we have and Dr. Lecter is a valuable ally and the only one that can control Will. If something happens to him, Mr. Graham will be left without a psychiatrist and the FBI will be minus a very knowledgeable profiler. I’m not willing to risk either of those and I expect you to do as you’re ordered.  That, or to find your letter of intent on my desk tomorrow morning.”

Charlie sighs with an air of resignation, “Can’t you just get Walsh to do it?”

“No, my decision is final, am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Charlie replies through clenched teeth.

“I’m glad we’ve come to an agreement. Dr. Lecter will brief you on everything when we get out there,” Crawford offers a tight-lipped smile and Charlie nods begrudgingly.

 

Hannibal and Will stand when the two exit and Crawford clears his throat, “Dr. Lecter, if you’ll brief Agent Mark on any information you feel she needs, I have a meeting to attend.”

Goodbyes are exchanged, and Charlie tucks a lock of short, light brown hair behind her ear, giving Dr. Lecter a polite smile, “Well, Doctor, how would you like to go about this?”

Hannibal licks his lips and brushes imaginary dust from his impeccable suit, “I arrive at my practice at precisely 8:00 every morning. I cannot let you be in the room with me at all times due to doctor/patient confidentiality, but I do have a comfortable waiting room you can sit in.”

“I’ll meet you there, then. I’ll have to do a sweep of entrances, exits, and sort out the potential hiding places and vantage points, but other than that, I can stay as out of your way as you’d like. This is generally an uneventful job, but Agent Crawford is right in that we must ensure your safety.”

Hannibal allows the corners of his mouth to curl up slightly and nods, “I appreciate it, Agent Mark.”

“Of course, Dr. Lecter, now if you would excuse me, I need to organize some things before tomorrow,” She smiles graciously and shakes their hands one last time before taking off down a hallway.

“Well she doesn’t seem happy about this,” Will says with a slight smirk as the two walk down the hallway.

“Why do you feel that is?” Hannibal puts his hands deep into his pockets.

Will shrugs. “She finds the task beneath her. She believes she’s better than a body guard. Imagine… A psychiatrist of your reputation and recognition finding themselves with the job as counselor to a high school with no way out.”

Hannibal smiles coldly, “I don’t think it’s quite that bad, but yes, she is not very thrilled about her new appointment.”

“Are you?”

Now Hannibal shrugs, “I believe it is simply too early to tell.”

Will nods, “She’s definitely a rarity in this line of work.”

“That she is. Makes one wonder how she found herself with such a job.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find out sooner or later. You always find out.”


	2. Chapter 2

Charlie Mark approaches the door to Hannibal’s practice with slow steps, a bag slung over her shoulder containing almost anything she could need: a gun, book, change of clothes, laptop, meals for the day, and other miscellaneous items. A final sigh and she opens the door, stepping from the crisp fall air into the waiting room and depositing her bag on a chair.

It’s not long before Hannibal opens the door to his office, “Agent Mark, right on time, and good morning.”

“Good morning Dr. Lecter, how are you today?”

“I am well, and yourself?”

“Oh, can’t complain too much…”

He gives an understanding nod, “But you can still complain.”

“I’m human,” Charlie smirks. “It’s one of the few things I never stop doing.”

He rewards the joke with a small smile and gestures for Charlie to enter his office, “You mentioned yesterday that you would like to examine my office. I’m not expecting my first patient for another twenty minutes if you would like to do that now.”

“Yes, thank you Dr. Lecter, I’ll go ahead and get that out of the way.

She walks past him and stares up at the high ceilings. “This is quite an office,” she says running her hand down the back one of the soft leather chairs. Hannibal doesn’t reply, and Charlie doesn’t seem to have expected one. First she walks the perimeter of the room, as if measuring approximate dimensions and then examining the windows. The floor-length curtains give her pause and she gives one an experimental shake. Hannibal watches intently as she opens up side closets, and checks the drawers in the dining space, knowing he carefully removed anything that could have been even remotely incriminating the night before. Her honey-gold eyes scan the room, taking in every detail and locking it away in her mind.

“You are very thorough,” Hannibal remarks.

“I have to be, Doctor,” she replies climbing the wooden ladder and bouncing slightly to test its strength.

“Have you done this before?”

“Yes, a few years ago, this was all I did,” She tells him as she darts between pieces of furniture, as if acting out potential hiding spots. She does a double take on her pass by his art desk, and stops to admire the pencil drawings. “Are these yours, Doctor?”

“Yes,” he crosses the room to join her at his desk. “Just a passing hobby between appointments.”

“The hatching here…” she points to the shaded side of a building, “It’s quite good. And you used pencils of varying lead hardness, yes?”

“Yes, I did. That’s quite observant of you, Ms. Mark, are you an artist yourself?”

She flips through the pages on the desk, “Once upon a time, I was a criminal sketch artist in New York, but I could never manage anything like this.” She gestures to the grand building. Her head snaps up when she hears the front door close, “Someone is here.”

“My patient must be early then,” Hannibal says, moving to open the door but Charlie overtakes him and opens the door herself. This annoys Hannibal, but he lets it slide, given her duties.

“Oh, h-hello,” the patient regards Charlie nervously. “I’m sorry Doctor, was my appointment time different today?”

“Not at all, Martin, please come in,” Hannibal says from behind Charlie.

“Sir, if you’ll stay right where you are for a moment.” Charlie approaches Martin, “and raise your arms.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Martin asks skeptically.

“Agent Charlotte Mark, FBI. Your name, sir?” she says showing him her badge.

“My name is Martin Sachs, I’ve been seeing Dr. Lecter for months now, i-is something wrong?” Martin looks even more nervous.

“Agent Mark, it this really necessary?” Hannibal asks with just a hint of irritation in his voice.

“Yes, Doctor, this is my job now,” Charlie replies and begins to pat down Martin.

“What’s g-going on?” Martin seems rather alarmed now.

“My apologies, Martin, Agent Mark is my armed guard while I work a particularly dangerous case. She is simply doing her job.”

“You’re all clear, Mr. Sachs, go on in. Dr. Lecter, if you could give me a list of your appointments when you’re through, that should be all I need from you.”

“I will see to it,” Hannibal says. “Martin, please come in.”

With the door closed, Charlie kicks off her shoes and settles into a chair with a sigh. This was going to be a long day.

 

Patients come and go until 12:00. At this time Hannibal opens the door to his office and Charlie looks up from her book. “It’s time for my lunch hour, if you would care to join me,” he offers.

“Oh, um, sure, that sounds lovely,” Charlie removes her reading glasses and uncurls herself from the couch. She follows him back to the side dining space, sits in the chair he indicates and rummages in her bag while he attends to something on the counter.

“Today, we have a Veal Piccata with a side of…” Hannibal stops midsentence with a plate in each hand and stares the large silver thermos Charlie holds like it’s a sin.

Embarrassed, Charlie tries to explain herself, “I’m sorry, Dr. Lecter, I didn’t realize you actually prepared me lunch. I should have said something, but I’m on Day four of a tri-annual detoxing regimen. It’s a fast of various juices and concoctions for ten days…”

He clenches his jaw, wordlessly places the second place back on the counter, and takes his seat.

“I mean it looks absolutely wonderful but… If I had known…”

“Think nothing of it,” Hannibal tells her flatly and takes a bite of his meal.

Charlie winces and quickly unscrews the lid to take a hurried gulp of her liquid lunch. “Um… Where did you learn to cook like that?”

“Years of trial and error and practice,” he replies sipping what had to be an expensive wine, because everything about this man is expensive.

She shrugs, “I’m useless at anything French.” Two smaller containers are taken out of her bag, “but I daresay I can hold my own with anything Asian.”

“Did you bring three whole courses?” Hannibal asks and lets an eyebrow quirk up.

“More or less,” Charlie shrugs again. “One is veggies, the other is fruit, and this,” she holds up a jar, “this just isn’t very good at all. But it’s the most effective part of the detox… So I take it.”

Hannibal nods politely and the conversation dies then. Charlie clears her throat and drinks her lunch awkwardly, and Hannibal only looks at her when she coughs after taking a few gulps of the nasty stuff from the thermos.

By 12:20, she is back at her post; he is back at his desk, and no words are exchanged until 7:20, or when Will walks in for his appointment.

“Hello, Mr. Graham,” Charlie greets him.

“Evening, Agent Mark,” he nods to her. “How has Day One been so far?”

“Eh…” Charlie throws a wary look to Hannibal’s office door. “He’s… pouting.” Will’s eyebrows furrow in a question and she continues in a hushed voice, “I didn’t eat his lunch.”

“Ohhh…” Will shakes his head. “I would imagine he found that rude.”

“I’m on a thing!” she insists. “I didn’t know he was going to…”

She stops when Hannibal opens the door to his office, “Will, please come in.”

Will gives her a nod and she returns to her book silently. There’s no doubt in her mind that he heard, and she’s pretty sure the door was closed a little more forcibly than usual.

Will leaves when his hour is up, exchanging only a quick goodbye with Charlie. Hannibal emerges from his office a few minutes later, briefcase in hand and a coat slung over his arm. He looks at Charlie expectantly and she checks her watch.

“I will follow you home, and there I’ll make sure things are squared away with the night guard. Tonight’s should be Dougal Bosco… Actually, he should be every night.  You don’t need to worry about him. He’ll just stand in front of the door all night, escort you here, and leave when I arrive,” she says evenly and Hannibal nods, leaving her to follow him home.

She waits for Bosco, the night guard, in Hannibal’s foyer, marveling at the grandeur of the house, but also wishing Bosco would hurry the fuck up.

Bosco finally arrives, and the hulking, stone-faced man takes his post silently just inside Hannibal’s door. She pats his shoulder, “Wish me luck, Bosco.” He doesn’t.

She steps further into the house, searching for Hannibal, and hating how dark it is. “Dr. Lecter?” she calls and hears a quiet clinking in the next room. Investigation reveals Hannibal busy making tea in the kitchen, his jacket off and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows.

“Yes?”

“I need to know any plans you might have this weekend so I can make sure any extra security I need is organized,” she tells him.

“I see,” he says setting a fine looking teacup on a saucer. “I do need to go to a few shops. I need some assorted foodstuffs and I have a fitting appointment with my tailor. Shall I compile a list?”

“If you would, I would be much obliged,” she answers rubbing her eyes. “Agent Bosco is at his post, and if you need anything else you can call me.”

He nods, “Thank you, Agent Mark. I will see you in the morning.”

“Yes, goodnight,” Charlie says and has to suppress a shiver on her way out.

 

Her condo is only twenty minutes away in a building overlooking a park. When she opens her door she is greeted with urgent meows as one of her two cats rubs itself on her legs. The other cat glares at her from his favorite perch on the back of her couch. 

"I know, I know, I'm late," she says dropping her bag and scooping up the calico. She begins to purr instantly and one of her green eyes quirks inwards. "Bingo, I think you had the same day as me," she says scratching the cat behind the ears. "You sat around on a couch all day with naught but an old, finicky, self-righteous jerk for company. And you just couldn't get away."

Bingo meows in response and the other cat, Feldman, plops onto the floor and waits by his food bowl expectantly. Charlie sets Bingo down and fills both their bowls and watches them until her phone rings, and she doesn't have to look at the caller ID to know who it is. 

"Hello?"

"You refused his lunch?!"

"Dammit… Sir, how was I supposed to know he was going to make me lunch? I wasn’t rude about it; I just politely declined and he went and pouted the rest of the day," Charlie says rolling her eyes and pulling a huge container of raspberries from the fridge. "I'm in the middle of my veggie juice fast thing; you know I don't mess with that, not for anyone."

"You might want to rethink that. You don't know how long you'll be assigned to him."

"God forbid you take me off and reassign someone else," she says sarcastically. 

Crawford sighs and Charlie can imagine him rubbing his eyes, wherever he is. "Charlie I need you to be on this one. He's too valuable, and you're too good."

"I know. I'm doing it. I just don't like it, so do me a favor and hurry up and catch her," Charlie tells him.

"Goodnight, Charlie," Crawford says with finality and the call ends before she can reply. 

The clock reads 10:17 PM by the time Charlie is done making a glass of raspberry juice and sits on the couch. Bingo is in her lap like a shot, and Feldman waddles over to permit her to pet him. “Would you guys feel insulted if you brought me a dead mouse and I didn’t eat it?” Feldman looks at her disdainfully and Bingo’s crooked eyes stare off lovingly. “Yeah I know, you’re half retarded and you already hate everything.”

Instead of working out, she takes a bath and listens to Billy Joel. 


	3. Chapter 3

Charlie arrives at Hannibal’s practice at the same time the next morning and Bosco nods to her and goes home to undoubtedly sleep. Charlie huffs, composes herself, and opens the front door.

His office door opens before she’s dropped her bag, “Good morning, Agent Mark, may I take your coat?”

She blinks, “Uhm, yes Doctor, thank you, good morning.” She shrugs off her coat and passes it to Hannibal who takes it back to his office and hangs it up next to his own on a rack. “I am not expecting my first patient for quite some time this morning, if you would care to join me for tea?”

Charlie has to put her book down and smile, “Sure, Doctor, that’s very… kind of you.” She figures that this is more or less his way of apologizing for being a bitch yesterday, and she’s not about to get anything more. She takes a seat and he places a cup full of steaming tea and a napkin on the small side table.

“This is an Earl Gray infused with ginger and mint, would you care for cream or sugar?”

“Ah, no thank you, Doctor I’m…” she says not wanting to bring up her juice thing but he nods.

“Your fast, I remember,” he takes his own seat across from her and crosses one leg over the other.

“Yes, that,” she smirks and sips her tea and wonders how much the chocolate brown suit he wears must have cost. Tea-sipping resumes in silence for a while, and her eyes wander around the huge room. “I think this is the only psychiatric office I’ve ever been in to have red walls,” she muses.

“Have you been in many psychiatric offices?”

“I’ve been in enough,” she tells him in a voice that doesn’t invite further investigation. “Usually they’re blue or green, or that god-awful taupe. Those are relaxing, calming colors; but red is a violent one.”

He seems to shrug, “I find it promotes thinking.”

“Hmm… Wait, do you have music playing?” she asks about the quiet melody she hears but can’t see any sort of speakers or stereo system anywhere.

“I do, are you familiar with Tchaikovsky?”

“Ah, not really, no, but this is still nice. I could listen to Beethoven’s fifth for days, but I’m more familiar with classic rock than classic anything else,” she says and tucks a flyaway lock of hair behind her ear.

“I see,” he nods.

“I do like movie scores, though.”

“The score can be the saving grace of a movie, as well as the death of it,” he says smiling knowingly.

She smiles in return, “Kind of like how the right song can make or break your day.”

“Exactly.”

Charlie finds herself talking with him about music and movies for she doesn’t know how long, losing track of how many times he refills her teacup, and figures this was  pretty nice as apologies go.

 

The first patient arrives, and Charlie returns to her post to busy herself recruiting extra men as security for Hannibal’s weekend errands. A little before 11:00, Hannibal opens his office door and addresses the waiting patient, “Angelica, I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel today’s appointment. I’m terribly sorry for such short notice but I’m afraid it’s very urgent.”

Charlie frowns and opens her mouth but Angelica beats her to it, “Doctor, I drove 45 minutes to see you today, I’d like to know what’s so important.” She crosses her arms defiantly and settles back into her seat.

He gives Charlie a look, “They’ve found another.”

She understands right away. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Charlie stands and quickly packs up her things.

“Found another what?” Angelica asks.

“Ms. Geralds, I’m sure Dr. Lecter has other patients he’s had to cancel on, but this is very urgent and important business and I will remove you from the premises if you do not remove yourself,” Charlie tells her flashing her badge one more time for effect. Angelica scowls, huffs, and storms out of the waiting room. “Where is it?”

“About an hour away,” Hannibal tells her as he retrieves their coats.

“I’ll follow you.”

 

Charlie pulls in behind Hannibal to a seedy apartment complex scattered with police cars, ambulances, various personnel, and gawkers. Hannibal lifts the yellow tape for her and she follows in one step behind him. A pretty Asian woman waves them over to an opened door and gives Charlie a puzzled look, but doesn’t bother asking about her.

“Same thing, Agent Katz?” Hannibal asks her.

“Yeah, Will is already in there doing his thing, so, you’ll have to wait,” she says herding them closer to the wall, out of the way of the swarming crime scene investigators, and looks at Charlie who is examining a large blood stain on the wall. “Yeah, who are you?”

“Oh, I’m Agent Charlotte Mark from Special Defense. Crawford assigned me as armed guard to Dr. Lecter given the… Resemblance of the killer’s double victims to Mr. Graham and Dr. Lecter.”

“Uh-huh…” Beverly looks between them incredulously. “Does Will have a guard?”

“No, he doesn’t. He is a FBI Special Agent, Dr. Lecter is a civilian,” Jack Crawford says approaching the group. “Jezebel also seems to pay a little more attention to the victims like Dr. Lecter,” he gives Charlie a sideways look.

“Jack,” Will calls from where he leans on the doorframe to another room and everyone files in. “Same thing… Same everything…”

“Christ…” Charlie breathes at the sight before her. The real thing is never the same as the pictures.

Two male corpses lay in bloody heaps, their abdomens ripped open and their innards spilling out of huge holes bored into them with what the reports describe as a large, cylindrical, metal object with a serrated edge, or as everyone else knows it to be, a giant metal phallus-shaped blade. Both of the mouths are split open giving the pale faces grotesque grins, and their hands removed and tied to cover their eyes. The tan, dirty room is painted in an obscene red that glistens where it is thickest and wanes into crusted streaks of umber where a hand leaned carelessly on a bed side table.  How the female killer got both of the men here, tied up, and then performs her acts, no one can figure. As per the usual, one victim is slighter in frame with tousled brown hair and most likely bluish-gray eyes behind the palms of the amputated hands, while the other is built almost barrel-like, older, with high cheekbones, and undoubtedly related to the other professionally. Charlie looks away and swallows hard, wholly unaccustomed to the gore of serial homicides, but unwilling to retreat the scene.

“She’s… She’s getting sloppier, but stronger at the same time. More ambitious, but more and more unstable with each killing,” Will starts and fidgets with his hands. “She acts alone, but is able to locate the victims, drug them, bring them here, restrain them, and do her work in a very timely manner.”

“The footsteps left on the scenes suggest a woman not much taller than the average,” Crawford says.

“Yes, yes but she’s strong, maybe a little clumsy, but she’s strong,” Will continues. “And we have the normal mutilation or amputation of only one body part or pair of appendages.”

“Does it mean the same thing?”

“She’s a punisher. A vigilante… Or at least she was. She’s sending us warning messages.”

“What is she saying this time?” Crawford asks.

Will is silent and seems to sneer, “‘Hands off’.”

Beverly picks her way around the blood and prods one of the bodies with a gloved hand, causing juices and organs to gush further out of a deep gouge in the victim’s rib cage.

Charlie gasps and coughs to hide it, feeling her stomach lurch, “Dr. Lecter, if you need me, I will be outside.” She hurries out of the room, her face burning. She hates having to leave, but knows that if she stayed much longer her breakfast would have contaminated the crime scene. Hannibal returns exits the apartment some time after 3:00 to find her standing right by the door. She offers no explanation for her behavior and he doesn’t ask for one, so she follows a step behind him back to where they parked their cars.

“Agent Mark, I cancelled all my other appointments, so I intend to return home,” he tells her getting into his car.

“Of course Dr. Lecter.”

 

At his house, he ushers her in, and insists she joins him in the kitchen when all she really wanted to do was stand by his door for four hours and not talk until Bosco got there. She leans on the stainless steel countertops and looks at all the other impeccably shiny stainless steel appliances, wonders why a single man would ever need three ovens, and how he manages to take care of an entire wall of spices and herbs.

“I guess you might be wondering what happened back there,” she says taking the cup of tea offered.

“A little, yes,” he answers wiping his hands on a towel. The jacket, vest, and tie are gone and the sleeves of the crisp white shirt have been rolled up to the elbows, and she vaguely wonders why she’s needed when he has the arms and shoulders he does. “But I won’t prod.”

She shrugs, “I’m not used to the mess of them…killers, I mean, just the cleaning up. I don’t deal with the gore and the macabre, I crash in and walk right past it because my job is to find the killer and take them out.” He leans on the opposite counter on the palms of his hands and gives her one of those understanding psychiatrist nods that only psychiatrists know how to do. She doesn’t like her brain being picked, but she’s had to deal with that before. “And I just find it really… upsetting. I would be a nurse right now, had I not run out of almost every dissection and demonstration,” she tells him and taps out a rhythm on the counter. “I can handle blood and bone, but the guts and innards squishing out… Eh, that’s where you lose me.”

“Completely repulsive, yes,” he agrees with her. “It’s hard to imagine one human being could do that to another.”

“Yeah, but there’s no use in imagining it or not imagining it, because it’s real,” she crosses her arms. “Dr. Lecter, you know you don’t have to entertain me if you don’t want to.”

“I know,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching up. “But you’re in my home, and to simply ignore you would be rude.”

“Alright, Doctor, but are you entertaining me for the sake of not being rude or because you genuinely want to?” she asks raising an eyebrow.

He smiles then, “A little of both, perhaps.”

 

When Bosco arrives, farewells and goodnights are exchanged and Charlie gets halfway home when she realizes the tune she’s humming is from a piano and cello song Hannibal played in the background. She clicks through the radio for something else, and finds herself in a foul mood because it’s all terrible.

“Hey kids,” she greets her cats who watch lazily from the couch. “Don’t all get up at once now, I’m just the one person in the world feeding, loving, and sheltering you.” Her sarcasm earns a sarcastic yawn from Feldman and a cockeyed look from Bingo. Tonight, she doesn’t get to take a nice long bath and listen to music. Instead, she throws herself into a workout and doesn’t stop until her muscles are screaming for rest, about three-and-a-half hours later. The cats watch her lift weights from the martial arts mats, and watch her practice martial arts from the weight bench.

Her shower is either too hot or too cold, and her sleep would have been much more restful had Bingo not woken her up in the middle of the night to proudly show off her latest pool of vomit.


	4. Chapter 4

Saturday, the day of Hannibal’s errands, arrives and Charlie is at his house at the normal time to see Bosco off with a nod. Hannibal answers in a robe and pajama pants with his hair barely combed and the slightest hint of chest hair showing and still manages to make Charlie feel underdressed and sloppy in her work clothes. Within moments, she finds herself in his kitchen and unsure of exactly how and when the cup of coffee she holds came to be.

She caught him in the middle of preparing breakfast, and a wonderful looking omelet with what appears to be ham, mushrooms, and spinach. The smell of cinnamon and apples hits her like a slap in the face and he removes a baking sheet holding two halves of an apple coated in still-bubbling sugar. Food magazines could only wish for food that looked like this.

“Agent Mark, did you bring your juice for the day?” he asks flipping his omelet with a masterful flick of his wrist.

“Yes, Doctor, I did,” she says patting the bag on her hip. “Monday is my last day.”

“That’s too bad,” he says shutting off the stove, “because these apples came out perfect.”

“I’ll just have to miss out then,” she watches him plate the food and take it into the dining room where he has a place set at the head of the table. “I hope you don’t mind if I join you, though. Sometimes my cat knocks over my alarm clock in the middle of the night and shuts it off, so I didn’t have time to drink breakfast before coming over here.”

“Not at all,” he says gesturing to the place next to his.

“I’ve yet to figure out which cat it is,” she tells him taking her seat. “One is lazy, but also a demon in feline form. The other is spastic, but dumber than a rock.”

He takes a bite much smaller than the bites she takes of anything. “It could be both, and they’re conspiring against you,” he offers after carefully chewing and swallowing.

“That makes sense,” Charlie says nodding gravely. “The evil one plans it out and the dumb just one doesn’t know any better.” She takes a gulp of the one nasty concoction and grimaces before washing it down with her kale, apple, and carrot juice.

“What do you put in that mix of yours that makes it so awful?”

“It’s basically a lot of lemon juice, cayenne powder, and just enough maple syrup to make it palatable,” she says tucking the jar back in her bag. “It flushes out the harmful substances in your blood and gives your digestive system a break is all.”

“Interesting,” he says and it seems a little forced, but she is more than used to that.

 

They don’t leave until after lunch and because it’s the weekend, Hannibal opts for a knit sweater on top of a button down shirt and dress pants over his usual three-piece suit. For the most part, Charlie stays in the background and tries to not be completely bored. Normally, there would be at least one other guard in a big public place like this, but Charlie couldn’t manage to pin one down, so it’s just her today.

She discovers that he’s exactly the kind of shopper she hates, not that it came as a surprise. He has to examine every little part of everything, and if deciding between two pairs of fine Italian shoes takes more than thirty minutes, then so be it. She shops with a get-in-get-the-fuck-out mentality, at least when she isn’t shopping online, which is most of the time. The trip to the barber takes twice as long as she ever thought would be necessary, but she doesn’t say a word about it. Her job is to guard him wherever he goes, not pester him for taking longer than she’d like him to. She offers no council or advice over what to get in which color because this is very obviously his ‘thing’, and to comment would be intruding.

Conversation is almost minimal, and she’s alright with that because she knows she wouldn’t be good conversation at all, at least not here. She is pleased with the fact that he isn’t turning her into a personal assistant. When she guarded full time, clients would often expect her to carry bags, fetch drinks, and magically make restaurant reservations appear. She’s pleased enough that she does offer to carry a bag or two, which he accepts graciously.

At the tailor’s, Hannibal leaves her waiting outside the velvet curtain and in charge of some alterations he picked up while he goes to the back dressing room for a fitting. He calls her in and she frowns, poking her head inside in time to see the very flamboyant seamster shrug a fine looking shirt of deep red onto his broad shoulders, allowing her a full view of the muscles of his back. Again, she wonders why she is needed, and hopes to god he didn’t catch her staring face in the mirror.

“Dr. Lecter is something wrong?” She asks as he buttons the cuffs and the tailor begins to pull and pin at the fabric.

“Not at all, I just wanted to know what you think,” he examines his reflection.

“Uh… You look fine…?” Charlie says a little bewildered.

“Oh, I know I look ‘fine’,” he says smiling crookedly. “I look ‘fine’ in everything. So tell me, what do you think?”

Admittedly, he looked brilliant, but she isn’t about to say that. “It looks good, Dr. Lecter, happy?”

“Very, thank you, Agent Mark.”

Of all the places Hannibal goes in and out of, Charlie actually kind of enjoys the trip into Williams Sonoma, a very high-end store specializing in kitchenware and other food-related finery. He inspects a huge braising pot while she inches away to look at a wok pan enameled in fiery orange. Instruments and gadgets of all kinds fill bins, jars, and shelves, tools for tasks she didn’t even know existed.

She wanders back over and waits as patiently as she can manage a little off to the side as she has all day and he gets the undecided and almost conflicted look on his face she’s already come to dread.

“One of the most popular colors is red,” the saleslady prattles. “It’s a very common kitchen color as it stimulates the appetite. But a lot of people like purple and orange simply for the pop of color it gives without being too overwhelming. Gray is nice and neutral of course and the black always looks really sleek and modern. Not as many people like the sage green but we move plenty of the dark blue…” Charlie is ready to bash her head in with a frying pan and Hannibal is nodding slowly like this is really important shit this lady is telling him.

“I do like the red but I already have a few in that color… the orange too,” he says biting his lip. Alright, Charlie isn’t enjoying this anymore, even if the lip-biting is nice. She sighs, thinking it would be a subtle hint that he’s taking way too long, but all it earns her is a dirty look. She wishes she could go off and shop for her, but to do so would be very unprofessional and she’s fairly certain she could never justify spending the money on anything here. She could do it; she just doesn’t see why she would. So she waits until he settles on the same red she’s seen in his kitchen. The arrangements are made for the massive pot to be mailed to his house because it weighs upwards of forty pounds, and Charlie waits a little more while he decides on a new spatula.

 

Hannibal finally announces dinner time, and settles on a café a little up the block.

“Good afternoon, welcome, just two today?” the hostess chirps.

“Yes, just the two,” he says before Charlie can tell him she’s supposed to wait outside when it comes to public meals, but she doesn’t correct him. Upon being shown their table, she spots someone she recognizes, a certain Senator Kelly, infamous for pushing cruddy laws and rights-restricting acts. He’s at the café with his wife and daughter, a young girl with a mess of curly brown hair and wearing a Disney Princess Merida dress, probably just bought from the Disney Outlet not three buildings over. She’s having a hard time containing her excitement over her coming ice cream and her parents do their best to hush her.

A waiter takes drink orders and Charlie drums “Tiny Dancer” on the table while she sizes up entrances, people, vantage points, and potential weapons, as she does with all places Hannibal visits. A brick half-wall hide their heads from the wide picture window and a hanging mirror gives her a view of the front door; she couldn’t have picked a better table herself.

“What is that you’re drumming on the table?” he asks.

“Oh, sorry, it’s ‘Tiny Dancer’, just a habit of mine,” she says.

“Elton John?”

“But of course, now what’s this?” she drums another rhythm.

He contemplates it for a moment, watching her hands on the dark polished wood. They’re strong hands, larger than would be expected on a woman her size and the tendons defined by years of work move under the skin easily. “That would be ‘Your Song’, correct?”

“You sure are,” the drinks arrive and Hannibal orders a fish something or other and it’s only then that Charlie realizes he never looked at a menu. The senator’s daughter receives her ice cream and this corner of the restaurant finally gets some peace. His food comes, and she pulls a canister from her bag.

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to put that away, we don’t allow outside food,” the waiter tells her.

“Oh, well you see I’m--” she begins as Senator Kelly stands and a hail of bullets rip through the air.

There’s a moment of palpable silence, like the moment between ticks of an old clock’s second hand, and then the chaos begins. Almost nothing remains of Kelly’s head and the waiter slumps on the floor, most likely dead or far too close to it to save. Half the people stand and fight for the exit while the other half huddle behind chairs and under tables as if they offer protection.

Charlie reacts immediately and calmly, throwing the barely affected Hannibal down and well out of the way of the huge picture window through which the bullets entered. Three final shots are fired and she seems to be the only person still standing up in the room. One barely clips her shoulder, another explodes a vase right next to her head, and the last buries harmlessly into the wall. She ignores them and leaps over the table in front of her to get to the closest civilians, senator’s wife and daughter, both too traumatized to scream or run. She turns them both around so they won’t see the gore of Kelly. The mother is entirely unresponsive, pupils dilated and shaking slightly. The little girl however, either too young to understand or too shocked to care, tugs on Charlie’s jacket.

“Miss lady, why is everyone yelling?” she asks, her face still covered in ice cream and sprinkles.

Charlie kneels and takes her by the shoulders, “Sweetie, sweetie, tell me your name.”

“Adelaide!” she says proudly.

“Well… Adelaide there are… bears out there. I need you to stay here with your mommy. Stay behind the wall so the bears won’t see you.”

“But they can still smell me!” her eyes go wider and Charlie focuses on them rather than the decapitated father behind her.

“N-no… I’m going to put up a magic… rope so that they won’t smell you. You just stay here and protect your mommy.” Adelaide nods gravely and sits next to her mother, taking her hand and patting it gently. Charlie stands and sheds her own jacket to cover the Senator’s body and notices that Hannibal is sitting back in his chair quite unruffled. “Stay here, watch them,” she tells him and he nods. She’s off like a shot, out the side door into the throng of surging people in the street. There’s only one building the shots could have been fired from, and she’s going to get there, find this asshole, and end him.

Her determined battle through the panic is interrupted as she’s elbowed to the ground, scraping her knees and hands on the asphalt. Her cell phone buzzes in her pocket as she stands. She knows it is Crawford, she does not want to answer, but she does anyway.

“Mark! What happened?! Where’s Dr. Lecter?”

“You’re only calling because you know, Sir. Lecter is fine, I’m doing wonderfully, thanks for asking, just bleeding out of where a bullet clipped my shoulder but it’s nothing major I should be fine,” she grumbles into the phone. She can hear him inhale to reply but doesn’t give him a chance, “Whatever it is, make it fast. I want to catch this guy.”

It is quiet on the other line, “You mean to tell me you left Dr. Lecter alone?” His voice is dangerously even and Charlie grinds her teeth.

“Yes, sir, he wasn’t the target, Senator Kelly was. Lecter is secure; I figured catching a sniper that just killed a member of the U.S. government took priority,” she shoves through a couple holding hands and trying to evacuate at the same time.

“You assumed wrong. Those were not your orders, Mark. I suggest you get back to Dr. Lecter. And fast,” Crawford’s tone is the calm before a storm.

She stops in the middle of the turmoil, feet away from the building’s door, “Are you serious?!”

“Yes, Charlotte, I am.” _Fuck_ , he used her first name, her _real_ name.

“Yes, sir,” she spits into the phone and hands up immediately. She takes her sweet time getting back to the restaurant, arriving at the same time ambulances and police cars do. Dr. Lecter moved to another part of the restaurant and she walks past the body of Senator Kelly being hefted onto a gurney by two EMT’s. His wife and daughter are nowhere in sight.

Hannibal stands with her bag at his feet, and Charlie realizes she attempted to chase down a man with a gun without her own. She does her best not to glare at him, it’s not his fault she’s upset, but a part of her feels it should be.

“You’re back early,” he says.

“Yeah…” she frowns and scoops up her bag.

“Would you like to tell me what happened?”

“Crawford happened. He told me to come back here,” she says fingering the cold metal of her Glock 27 in her bag. “So the sniper undoubtedly got away.”

Hannibal pauses because she’s angry, very angry. Her hair is mussed, her clothes are torn in a few places and bloody, and her eyes are about to bore a hole in the wall. “Agent Mark, I think it would be wise to try and relax,” he says putting a hand on her shoulder.

She shakes it off and whips around to face him, “Fuckin’… No! No, I’m not about to ‘try and relax’,” she sneers and Hannibal frowns. “A man was just shot in front of his family, and I could have caught the guy. I could have done it. But noooo… I get to stay here with you. I get to stay here and…” she stops, unwilling to end what she started.

“Babysit,” he finishes for her.

“Yeah… that” she sighs and rubs her temples.

He purses his lips and picks up a napkin from a nearby table. “Here,” he holds it out to her.

She glowers at it, “What’s that for?”

“You’re bleeding quite a bit. Your cheek, lip, and shoulder,” he tells her indicating the long cut on the apple of her cheek and the tiny knick on the top of her upper lip, just by the corner of her mouth.

“….Oh. Thank you,” she says just now noticing the sticky, wet feeling coating her face and neck where the blood dribbled down. “It must have been from that vase.”

He doesn’t reply as he picks up another napkin and ties it around her arm in a makeshift bandage until proper attention could be paid to it. She does her best to staunch the bleeding of her cheek and not tongue the cut on her lip. Needless to say, this blouse, one of her favorites with the collar and cuffs a darker blue than the body, is absolutely ruined.

Local police and FBI arrive, asking questions, demanding reports. She takes a trauma blanket from an ambulance to replace the jacket she used as a death shroud and wraps it around her shoulders while she wonders how in the world Hannibal managed to stay as pristine as he ever is.

That jacket was also one of her favorites. Today is not a good day.

The time comes when Charlie must face the inevitable and talk to Crawford. She feels silly and childish, all a mess and clutching a blanket, which only serves to piss her off some more.

“Dr. Lecter, glad to see you’re alright,” Crawford says walking up and Charlie has to fight the urge to roll her eyes. “And Agent Mark.”

“Sir,” she nods to him.

“Care to tell me what happened?”

“Shots were fired, I made sure Dr. Lecter was out of harms way, and I commenced pursuit of the shooter,” she says through gritted teeth.

“You violated your orders.”

“I did what I thought was right, sir. I believe I could have caught him, had you allowed me to try.”

“He was none of your concern. You left a charge in a hostile environment,” Crawford replies putting his hands deep in his pockets.

“Well look at him!” Charlie snaps. “He’s fine, he’s _fine_ , I got stitches, and there’s not a stitch out of place on his sweater.”

“As it should be,” Crawford rumbles. “You expect me to applaud you for actually doing your job? You’re better than this, Mark-”

“Yeah! I am! I haven’t been a body guard in six years!” she retorts and the blanket falls around her feet.

“Enough! Now, I’m going to pretend you didn’t say what you just said, because I’m a nice guy like that. This is your first strike, Mark, the third get’s you demoted. Do I make myself clear?”

She crosses her arms, defeated, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. I have reports to look at. And Mark, I expect yours first thing tomorrow morning,” he points a finger at her and she nods. “Good evening, then.”

Hannibal watched the exchange quietly and spoke after Crawford left, “For what it’s worth, I think you handled the situation well.”

She sighs and rubs her eye, “Thank you, Doctor. Crawford was right, though. It’s better that I get cut up than you; that’s kind of the whole point of me being here.”

“How did you know to say that to the little girl, about the bears?”

She shrugs, “I have a thing for children’s cartoons and movies. She was wearing a Disney princess dress so I went with that. Hell, I’ll probably go home and watch it... Which reminds me…”

“Yes?”

“Tomorrow is my day off,” she scratches her head and picks out a shard of porcelain. “Well, not really, but my day off from you.” He raises an eyebrow and she hurries to correct herself, “Not that I need a day off from you specifically, that’s the day I’m allotted to attend to other duties and obligations I have inside the bureau.” The thin tape used to seal the cut on her cheek itches and she sticks her hands in her pockets to keep from picking at it. “Oh, Bosco, thank god,” she didn’t realize it was that time already, but she doesn’t do a good job hiding her relief that it is. She makes her farewells quickly, and heads out, avoiding Crawford and politely refusing the police escort home.

The steaming shower burns her arm where seventeen stitches knit the skin together. They patched her up at the scene when she insisted on not going to the hospital. She knows she’s lucky; a few inches over and her bone could have been shattered. After she’s dried off, she wraps fresh gauze around the wound and wanders around her condo in a pair of boxer shorts.

The urge to smoke hits her about thirty minutes into “Brave” and she frowns, this hasn’t happen in ages. She gave up smoking years ago. The craving is vanquished with a medley of apple and carrot juice. Feldman actually sits in her lap and Bingo sits to the side, disgruntled at her stolen spot.

“You guys… Did you know that like, six hours ago, I was being shot at? Yeah,” she picks up Feldman like a huge blob of black and white bread dough. “Now I’m here, watching cartoons in my underwear with you guys,” the cat growls and wriggles out of her grasp, taking a new domain on the arm of the couch and Bingo happily reclaims her seat. “I lead a charmed life.”

The ruined shirt and pants lay in a dirty pile by the front door. The top three buttons of the top were undone before the door closed. They remind her she should be writing Crawford’s report. She rubs her eyes and looks at the clock. It reads almost 10:00 PM and she groans. There’s no way she can finish “Brave,” write the report, jack off, and be asleep by a half-way decent hour.

Oh well.


	5. Chapter 5

Her day off is below average and wholly unremarkable: Feldman and/or Bingo knocked her alarm clock over again and made her late. The printer jammed on her report, and her score at the shooting range was five points below her average, knocking her down to second place. She does manage to leave work early and run errands of her own, and when she gets home she thoroughly cleans her entire home and everything in it, a practice she got into doing after shootings and takedowns. She doesn’t know why and she’d never questioned it. She stubs her toe on the coffee table when her foot slips on the wet cement floor and consequentially teaches the cats new levels of swearing.

 

Torrential rain starts at about 3:00 AM on Monday and she listens to loud music with noise-cancelling headphones to block out the sound of thunder. It doesn’t scare her nearly as much as it used to, but it still shakes her up sometimes.

She waits on the little covered porch outside of Hannibal’s office and watches water drip off the gutter until he pulls up not five minutes late. Bosco nods to her through his car window and keeps driving.

“I’m terribly sorry, Agent Mark,” Hannibal says getting out of the car. “Some people just can’t handle a little water on the roads, it would seem.”

“Oh, it’s alright, Doctor,” she says fighting a yawn. “I think we’ve all been there.”

“You seem tired today,” he remarks as he unlocks the door.

“The rain kept me up,” she follows him in and drops her bag.

“And your arm?”

“It’s fine, thanks. It just itches and I can’t use it too much but the stitches should be out next week or so.”

“Glad to hear it,” he smiles slightly when she hands her coat off to him and he hangs it up. “I’m going to be rather busy today; most of the appointments that I cancelled last week were rescheduled for today.”

She shrugs, “Not a problem for me.”

 

The call comes on Tuesday, less than a week from the last. In a motel off a quiet road, a forensic team works. Charlie follows a step behind Hannibal as always and ventures into the bloody room despite her uneasiness.

The killer was much more creative this time, and had more material at her disposal than the usual. She pushed the ceiling panels away and used the metal grid to suspend body parts with thin wire. The older victim’s jaw was torn away and placed upon the younger’s head, fingers ripped off and tied into necklaces and the usual massive holes bored into the torsos still leaked fluids.

Charlie feels his hand on her shoulder before she registers exactly what she’s looking at. Suspended between the two usual victims, joints cracked and forced to bend opposite directions in a grisly hogtie hung a woman with short brown hair and broad shoulders. Her breasts hang on by strings of flesh, the eyes gouged and stuffed into her mouth. Entrails hang down like gruesome streamers and scratch marks are very evident all over her body. The killer does everything she can with the victim alive, known to even attempt sewing them up or administering cardiopulmonary resuscitation.

Will arrives then, and Charlie realizes that someone has been trying to speak to her. “Charlie,” Hannibal shakes her shoulder lightly. “It’s time for us to get out.” She complies and remembers how to breathe only when she’s gotten back into the gray autumn afternoon.

She sits on the hood of a police car and takes deep, shaky breaths, too alarmed to throw up. She hates being so affected, being the only one really unnerved by the scene, and she hates how he waits so patiently for her to get over her almost panic attack. She’s supposed to be the protector here, the caretaker, not him, and this fuels her. After a last deep breath, the stands and straightens her jacket.

“Guess the cat’s out of the bag,” she says crossing her arms. “I’m a target, too.”

“It’s personal now,” Hannibal completes her thoughts.

“Yup, sure is. She doesn’t like me around, she wants me gone.”

“She feels threatened by you,” Hannibal watches her pace the cold ground, less like a caged tiger and more like a caged wolf. She’s angry and insulted and seeks to end it all. He likes this side of her. This side that comes out only when she needs it, like the day she was first assigned, when he watched her choke out a man much larger than himself with only a split lip to show for her troubles or shooting last Saturday when she forged headlong into who knew what danger. She never simply or brashly reacts; she _decides_ what she does with speed and accuracy.

He knows she’s frustrated, all dressed up and no where to go, no where to expel this newfound energy. She confirms this by running a hand through her hair and telling him she’d really like to shoot something.

“How about a drink instead?” He offers as he buttons his coat.

“Oh no, I don’t drink,” she keeps on pacing.

“What a shame,” he says leaving her to her thinking, a little put off she refused yet another invitation, but understanding nonetheless. He remembers then he has yet to cook for her, something he must soon redress.


	6. Chapter 6

The first of November, Wednesday, brings the first frost of the season, unusually early for Baltimore. Each morning, the cats sleep in a pile on her bed while she gets ready, her bare feet quick on the cold bathroom floor, and as she wraps up her wet hair in a towel she spies the dusty rose stripe on her arm that will inevitably end up a silvery pink scar.

Friday night, as Hannibal locks the door to his practice and Charlie wraps a knitted scarf around her neck, his cell phone rings. He pulls it out and checks the number and seems a little taken aback. He gives her a slightly apologetic look and answers. She stuffs her hands in her pockets and leans on the hood of her car while he speaks briefly with the caller. He looks puzzled at first, until his expression brightens a little and she makes a point of not listening in.

“Thank you for waiting Agent Mark,” he says hanging up and tucking the phone away. “That was a friend of mine who just found himself with some unclaimed tickets to the opera and asked if I wanted one. I hope you don’t mind, but I accepted. I very much like this singer and originally wasn’t going to attend because I wasn’t able to get a good seat before they were all snatched up.”

“Oh that shouldn’t be a problem at all,” she says with a shrug. “I’ll make a few calls and get security organized, not a big deal.”

“Yes well, it’s tomorrow night.”

“….Ah, well then, security isn’t happening. Dr. Lecter I asked you to give me heads up about these things.”

“I know, but I simply couldn’t resist.”

Charlie frowns, she’s not about to be able to say ‘no’, mostly because she doesn’t have control over his actions, but also because he picked this exact moment to look like a guilty puppy that no one could ever say ‘no’ to. She frowns harder when she realizes she now has to attend the opera and can’t make the peons do it.

She sighs, “When is it?”

“Eight o’clock,” he tells her as a sharp wind rips through the trees and makes her shiver. She’s wearing her backup coat and it’s not nearly as warm as the one she lost last week.

“Well alright then.”

 

It’s Bosco that opens the door the following morning, and Charlie’s ears are greeted with the sound of metal scraping metal. She gives him a questioning look and he shrugs and leaves.

“Some help you are,” she mutters and follows the sound to Hannibal’s magnificent kitchen where he stands sharpening a knife.

“Good morning,” he says testing the blade and then slicing through a cucumber as if it’s butter. The sleeves of his turtleneck are rolled up and a white apron is tied around his waist.

“Good morning to you too,” she says dropping her bag.

“Help yourself to some coffee if you’d like, but I need to get this marinating,” he cuts the vegetable into thin, uniform slices.

“Well, is there anything I can do?”

“That depends, how skilled are you with knives?”

“Skilled enough to chop cucumbers,” she says rolling up her sleeves and washing her hands.

“Very well, finish these up for me then,” he hands her the knife, knowing he has more cucumbers in the refrigerator should her skills prove to be less than great. He leaves her to that while he squeezes limes and picks herbs from the wall. The little _tok_ sound of the blade hitting the wooden cutting board is much more rapid than he thought it would be, and only accelerates. He peers over her shoulder to find her nearly done, and all the slices uniform. “It seems to me that you are more than skilled enough to chop cucumbers.”

She smiles, “An 80-year-old Japanese woman taught me how to cook, and the Japanese are all about knives. Though, I don’t think this knife is Japanese.”

“Correct, they’re American-made. This morning is the first time I’ve sharpened it in three years because it simply hasn’t needed it.”

“Hmm… I might have to get a couple then.”

“I highly recommend it,” he places cuts of meat in a glass dish and pours a mix of… something over them. The cucumbers he takes and tosses with some tomatoes and olive oil and places them back in one of the two refrigerators.

“Those are some serious ice boxes you got there,” Charlie says munching on a cucumber slice. “How many bodies do you think you could get in there?”

“Seven.”

“Bet you could get eight if you really crammed them,” she says grinning and he has to smile because she’s right. “I’m sorry, that’s horrible of me to say. It’s just… early. I’m not quite awake yet.”

“Some coffee then?” he offers wiping his hands on a towel.

“Yes, Doctor if you would be so kind,” she says brushing hair out of her eyes.

“I hate to spring this on you, but I’d like to make a run to my tailor; my shirts are ready and there’s one I’d like to wear tonight,” he says placing a cup in front of her. There is no cream or sugar because he knows she takes none. “Scone?”

She nods, “You mean the same tailor from last Saturday?”

“The very same,” he hands her a plate holding a blueberry scone and it’s just about life changing when she bites into it.

“We can probably swing that. Just watch out for senators.”

He removes his apron, “The funeral is Monday.”

“Are you going?”

“I am, yes.”

“Then I guess I’m going too.”

 

Lunch is at the same café from last week and Charlie picks the table this time, away from the brand new picture window. Hannibal orders the same thing he did a week ago, and she sticks to a chicken sort of thing. They get back to his home from the errand quickly and Charlie sits herself down in his living room. She doesn’t like it very much. It’s dark, vaguely gloomy, and heavy; leather furniture never struck a good chord with her and the appeal of antlers and horns in decorating she would never ever understand. Out of boredom, she peruses the bookshelves, the novels and little objects he kept in his personal space, not the innumerable tomes of psychology and the like he kept at his practice.

Most of the shelf space is occupied by cookbooks, predominantly European but with some Asian here and there. A surprising amount of baking books has their own little niche on the shelf, among these, a large book that seems to be devoted to nothing but pancakes. She finds she can’t read the titles of almost half of all the books because they’re in another language, like German, French, or Danish.

She takes a moment and wonders if he could possibly be quad-lingual, and ultimately it doesn’t surprise her.

The books that aren’t about cooking are actually many she knows, by authors she’s heard of before, read, and forced to endure during school. One title stands out: “A Clockwork Orange.” She tips the novel out of its place with a finger and can’t help but smile a little as she flips though it.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Fucking hell! I mean uh…” she jumps and nearly drops the book, caught entirely off guard, which happens next to never. “I… Uh, sorry, Doctor I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Not at all,” he says crossing the room. “It’s a very intriguing read, if one is willing to overlook the violence. Or rather, ultraviolence.”

She laughs at the gimmick and it sounds way too nervous for her to be alright with it but she doesn’t linger, “I’m a little surprised you have this. It doesn’t seem… Quite like you.”

“Then what seems quite like me?” he takes the book from her and sits in a leather high-backed chair studded with little silver tacks all over.

“Well, I don’t know that, really, but I wouldn’t have ever guessed this,” she settles in the only seat that isn’t leather: a winged chair upholstered in deep blue velvet.

“You have to consider the theme, the big question Mr. Burgess is asking here,” he says steepleing his fingers. The blazer he wore earlier is off, leaving just a turtleneck.

“And what would that be, Doctor?”

“Is ‘being good’ really ‘being good’ if it’s out of fear?”

“Well, why are you good?”

He pauses, not expecting such a question. He knows that by her standards (and many others), that he is not good. “I see it less of a question of good or bad, and more of a decision to be intelligent, civilized, and sophisticated, rather than a mindless savage.”

“That’s… certainly an interesting way of looking at it,” she says looking back at the shelf of books. “But um… Do you really have an entire book about pancakes?”

“It was a gift, but yes.”

“Huh.”

It isn’t long before Hannibal retires to get ready for the opera. She watches him go thinking that it’s way too early to be getting ready for a show at 8:00. Sure, the hall is 45 minutes away, but for fucks sake it’s only a little after 4:00 in the afternoon. A small part of her wants to know what he could be doing that takes so long, but most of her really doesn’t want to know. God what if he’s waxing his unmentionables. God no.

He’s back out in only an hour, and Charlie wonders if he has dinner plans he forgot to tell her about. But _god damn_ he looks all kinds of spiffy. The red shirt he tried on last weekend is worn under a black suit with a silky bow tie and his hair is all combed and _god dammit_ Charlie is a professional and does not get to do this. That one time with the intern in the janitor’s closet three years ago was a fluke and she promised herself she would never ever do anything like that ever again.

He adjusts the deep red handkerchief in his breast pocket, “Agent Mark, am I right to assume I will need to accompany to your home for you to get ready for tonight?”

She blinks, “So… I can’t go in this?” She gestures to her gray pantsuit with a dark green blouse underneath and her “sensible but stylish” work shoes. He gives her a pained look. “Doctor, I’m on duty. I’m not going for my enjoyment; I’m going for my job, which is to lurk around in the back with a gun and a walkie talkie waiting for trouble that probably won’t happen.” The last thing she wants is him in her home. She’s fairly certain there’s a huge pile of laundry that’s yet to be folded and a “present” from Feldman she didn’t feel like cleaning up this morning. “Not to mention, it’s against policy and just a tad unprofessional.”

“Unprofessional is showing up to an opera in business casual,” his eyes turn cold. “Besides, you don’t get to ‘lurk in the back’, you have a seat.”

“I… what- Dr. Lecter did you seriously buy me an opera ticket?”

“Of course, Agent, I simply wouldn’t feel safe otherwise,” he’s smirking now and she could slap him.

“Doctor I just… Alright, geez,” she rubs her temples. “I don’t… do things like this. I doubt I have anything to wear.”

“Oh, surely you have something,” he says ushering her to the front door.

“No I really don’t think I do,” she says still trying to get out of having to sit quietly through however long of people just singing. “There’s only one occasion I can think of that I bought a dress for that would be somewhat suitable, and I got a stain on it and never bothered to pick it up from the cleaners so I have almost nothing.”

“Almost nothing is still something, Agent. Now, we really much be leaving, or else we could be late,” and she’s opening the door to her car and muttering curses. She’s pouting for half the ride to her home until she finally gives in and accepts her fate, wondering if she can get extra pay out of this.

God the opera just sounds so... boring. Impossibly, ungodly, ridiculously mind-numbing. She could even handle the orchestra, or a play, but not… God fuck all kinds of duck. She knows the one thing she has to wear and she hopes she can lie her way out of it and go in her comfy pants but the good Doctor is simply too smart for that. He’ll see right through it, and she’ll have to wear a dress for the first time in almost two years.

She can’t help but feel just a bit inferior having him in her town home. It’s not dingy or cheap by any means, but after being in his house, almost anywhere can feel small and common.

She asks him to wait so she can make sure the place is presentable then runs in and throws the pile of unfolded laundry back into the basket and in the spare room, gets the stray hairs off the bathroom sink, and realizes she already cleaned up whatever mess the cats made the night before.

“Alright, it’s safe,” she peeks back out into the hall as a portly older lady and her yorkie dog walk by.

“Charlie, honey, who’s your friend?” She asks picking up the dog and looking Hannibal up and down like he’s for sale. He inspects the dog and the woman with a slight air of distaste and subtly positions himself on the other side of Charlie.

“Oh, he’s not, Mrs. Haberschaff, it’s just work stuff,” she says pulling him through the door.

“Oh I see, you and your ‘top secret’ FBI missions and whatnot. And dear, I keep asking you to call me Mabel!” She bustles off with her rat/dog laughing quietly to herself and the dog yipping.

“Yes’m I’ll get right on that,” Charlie mutters and shuts the door. “What? Don’t look at me like that.” Bingo is flopped on the couch looking utterly betrayed; Charlie had run in and completely ignored her while she cleaned up.

“I would have never guessed you kept cats,” Hannibal remarks letting Feldman sniff his hand. “You don’t smell like them at all and there’s never any fur on your clothes.”

“Years of practice, excessive vacuuming, and grooming.” She pushes hair out of her face and quickly fills the cats’ food bowls. Hannibal looks around and comes to the conclusion that the space suits her entirely. There’s not much to be said for decoration, but what she does have is bold with lots of hard edges and deep colors. It’s very neat and organized, which he appreciates. Most importantly, the kitchen is very clean and she seems to have a good set of knives. There aren’t any pictures but there is a bamboo plant with a “Hello my name is…” nametag. Further investigation reveals that the plant is named Kevin.

Feldman accepts a scratch behind the ears from Hannibal and Charlie rushes to her room. “If you really don’t believe me when I say I have nothing to wear, then go ahead and look through my closet. I’m going to get in the shower.”

The master bedroom is odd in that the only separation for the bathroom from the bedroom is a large freestanding fireplace. Two large walkways pass on either side and Charlie hastily pulls closed the curtains she had to hang up herself muttering curses the entire time. If Crawford, or anyone for that matter, found out she had a charge in her house, in her room, with her stripping and showering behind nothing but a curtain, to get ready and go to a god damned opera, it would be the _end_ of her. Maybe not that bad but it would be absolute hell.

Hannibal is just a little amused at the situation, or more how she’s handling it. Her closet is actually a large, freestanding wardrobe taking up an entire wall. He slides back a door to find a bunch of drawers. Opening them, he finds an overabundance of stretchy cotton T-Shirts of varying cuts and styles. He’s all for casualty, but three drawers are quite enough, he thinks.

The other drawers are filled with bags and shoes. He searches the entire wardrobe and finds only a few breezy summer dresses and three skirts, but nothing else but jeans and various ‘work clothes’.

He frowns, as this will never do and all around is not okay. He can’t fault her for not having the clothes he thinks she should have, but he certainly finds it preposterous and stubborn. Looking up, tucked in the highest shelf, are four glossy, expensive looking boxes. If he’s going to find anything, it will be in those.

It takes standing on tip toes to reach them, but he does, and he places them on the bed. One is white with the Playboy bunny symbol on the lid and his curiosity is instantly piqued. He decides it’s safe to look because he can still hear the water running. Under layers of tissue paper is an envelope resting on top of what appears to be a very sharp letter opener and a black bunny costume, ears and all. He simply stands and stares into the box; because he would never, in a million years, guess Charlie had ever once been one of those women. The envelope contains a picture of Hugh Hefner himself surrounded by a dozen ladies. He easily picks Charlie out as the one in the back that doesn’t seem thrilled to be there. The water stops then, and Hannibal quickly puts the lid back on and pushes the box aside as if it hadn’t been considered yet.

The next box has “Niemen’s” on the top in glossy script and he smiles.

“Aaaand you found it,” Charlie huffs peeking out from behind the curtain in a robe and her hair in a towel.

“It would seem you lied to me, Agent,” he says removing the lid and lifting up a black satin dress.

“I’ll warn you, that thing is ancient. It was a gift from my mother nearly ten years ago and I doubt it still fits. I’ve gained more than I’d like to admit since then.”

“We don’t know that.”

She groans, “Doctor please, for the love of all things holy, do I really have to wear that thing? Honestly, what’s wrong with an FBI bodyguard looking like an FBI bodyguard and doing the things an FBI bodyguard is supposed to do?”

“Agent Mark, it simply isn’t done, now if you would please hurry,” he holds the box out to her.

“I’ll do it, Doctor, but I won’t like it,” she grumbles and snatches the dress away.

The cats come in, consider Hannibal for a moment, and disappear behind the curtain. He hears her talking to them and doesn’t care to pick out what she’s saying. The smallest box is also from Niemen’s, holding shoes and a clutch wrapped in tissue paper. Why she has these, he doesn’t know, but figures there’s a good enough story behind it. She’ll need some sort of jewelry, he figures, so he moves to a tall, narrow, chest of drawers. The first one he opens is full of underwear and he takes just a bit too long to close it than most people world. The next is all socks. The next pajamas. The next-

“Whoa, no, no, no!” Charlie appears out of nowhere and slides herself between him and the dresser and shuts the drawer behind her. Hannibal pauses, wondering what could be in that drawer that’s so important that he not see. He purses his lips when he realizes that it’s probably long, cylindrical, pink or purple, possibly sparkly, and battery powered. And that the drawer may be full of them or related items. Her face is flushed deep red and she looks a strange mix of embarrassed and angry.

Charlie feels the hard edge of the dresser pressing into her back and wishes there were more than a few inches of space between herself and Dr. Lecter. He adjusts the lapels of his suit and clears his throat, “I’ll leave you to it then.” He leaves and Charlie nudges the cats out behind him and shuts the door. She pops a painkiller from her nightstand drawer for the growing headache and then pops a few more.

She picks out some simple silver earrings from a jewelry box and does her best to style her hair. The heels are only three inches tall but she couldn’t handle much more than that. She grabs the clutch and gives herself one last look-over in the mirror before heading out. The satiny black dress reaches the floor even with the heels and it’s much tighter than she remembered. The long slit up the thigh doesn’t bother her that much because it will at least let her run easily. She hates that it doesn’t have a back and she hates that she had to loop the halter straps around her neck to make sure her breasts don’t spill out of the damn thing. A last touch of eye shadow and lip goo and she opens the door to see a dejected Bingo watching Hannibal give Feldman a belly rub.

“Um, I’m sorry I snapped at you, Doctor,” she says and packs the essentials into the bag. Gotta keep it polite and professional somehow. Her badge, extra lip gloss, phone, money, a couple tissues…

“It’s quite alright, I was snooping,” she doesn’t hear him say because she’s just realizing the clutch will not fit a gun. At all. And she doesn’t have anything else suitable.

“Oh hell,” she says under her breath and hurries back into her room. Hannibal hears some drawers opening and then the rip of Velcro. He frowns: Velcro is never a good sign. She comes back, grabs her gun from her bag, and fastens it into a holster she wears on her thigh.

“Agent Mark, must you wear that?”

She laughs a little too darkly, “Dr. Lecter, you may be able to get me to wear a dress, heels, and go to the opera, but I am not, I repeat, _not_ , leaving my gun behind. Especially while I’m on duty.” She smoothes the dress over her hips and the thick strap makes just the faintest bulge on her leg.

He clenches his jaw once and holds back an exasperated sigh, “Very well then. Shall we go?”

Charlie does her best not to pout in the car, to keep her expression light and uncommitted. They ride in his car after a discussion about the limited parking of the opera house. Hannibal knows she hates this. He underestimated how completely out of her element she is. He considered, for just a second, calling off the whole ordeal, having mercy, but he already had the tickets, and the thigh holster stunt dried up any sympathy he was willing to fake.

Traffic makes the progress slow. While stopping at a red light, he sees her lightly fingering the scar on her arm. Some of the stitches had already begun to dissolve out, but the scar still stands out on her skin, obviously fresh.

“How long do these things usually last?” she makes the first noise of the entire car ride.

“Anywhere from two to three hours, but I think this one can be expected to be on the shorter side,” he doesn’t take his eyes off the road.

“I’ll text Bosco then,” she says pulling out her phone. “You know I could leave at 9:30. That’s when I’m off duty.”

“You could,” he nods. “But...”

“But I’ve come this far. I might as well see it all through,” she tilts her head back and shuts her eyes. She’d wrapped the satin halter ties around her neck to shorten them and cover more skin. The tendons straining in her neck gave it a collar effect. “You know, the last time I wore this dress, I wore it to a thing I didn’t really want to go to but did anyway.”

“And what thing might that be?”

“A banquet, dance, ball, something-or-other. My mother bought this dress just for the occasion, convinced I’d marry the guy I was date to, or rather, marry into a lot of money, and ultimately secure my future.”

“I see it worked out,” he says sarcastically.

She snorts, “The guy was a pig. My mother saw more good in one person than I see in eight. The night ended with him in the hospital for a broken jaw and covered in champagne.”

“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” he says even more sarcastically.

“You joke, but I’ve hospitalized my fair share, and after tonight, reminding might not cut it.”

He chuckles quietly, “How old were you then?”

“Oh… 26… Maybe 25. Fresh out of the academy, too,” she fiddles with a loose string on her bag.

“Seems rather young.”

“A little, yes, but I skipped a few grades.”

“Impressive.”

She shrugs, “The way I grew up, it was either get ahead or fall too far behind to save.” She sees that understanding psychiatrist nod in her peripheral vision and she’s just glad he doesn’t ask another question.

The valet opens her door and she gets out of the car less than gracefully, still trying to acclimate to the heels. It’s now she realizes she forgot to grab any sort of a coat and goose-bumps prick her skin in the frigid wind.

Once inside, she beelines for the security desk, ignoring Hannibal’s request that she not. A flash of the badge and extra security is arranged for the entire building.

“I’m almost absolutely certain that was completely unnecessary,” Hannibal says from behind her.

“Doctor, I hate to dig up old wounds, but I was almost absolutely certain that a week ago, nothing would happen. I have to at least try to do my job somehow, even if it’s just a little bit,” she tells him as she follows him to a group of people that have to be his friends. She could scream.

“Hannibal, who’s your friend?” Same tone, changed words, still really annoying and creepy. A tall woman with a pinched face and unnaturally full lips examines Charlie with critical eyes.

“Donna, this is Charlotte Mark, my companion this evening,” Hannibal tells the group. There’s a man with a thinning hairline and watery eyes, who Charlie pegs as Donna’s husband. A stick-thin, bony woman with bright red lipstick and a pin-straight bob haircut gives Charlie one of the most passive aggressive handshakes she’d ever experienced and tells Charlie to call her Isobel. She has a younger looking man on her arm, and they are definitely not married.

“It’s a pleasure, Charlotte,” the watery-eyed man introduces himself as John.

“Charlie, please,” she ups the polite sincerity.

“Well, Charlie, I can’t say I’ve ever seen you here before,” Donna purrs and Charlie kind of wants to hide.

“You haven’t,” she pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m much more at home at a rock concert than an opera house. I’m here because Dr. Lecter made me come.”

“Did he now?” Donna exchanges a look with her husband. “Well I do hope you enjoy it.”

“Thank you, I’ll do my best,” Charlie gives her a gracious smile and tries to remember a time she wanted to kill anyone more than right now.

“What happened to your arm?” Isobel gestures at the stitches. “If it’s not too much to ask.”

Charlie pauses for just a second. Hannibal didn’t introduce her as an agent of the FBI, so he must want to keep that hush-hush, god knows why. She is now faced with the choice of keeping it a secret and not annoying him, or telling them and letting him deal with it.

“I was moving boxes around in my garage and snagged it on a metal shelf. It was really nasty business and I do not recommend it,” she says baring her arm for everyone to look at and fake-wince or nod appreciatively. The overhead lights dim, then brighten, and dim again, the signal for people to take their seats.

He places a hand on her shoulder and she’s painfully aware of the heat coming from it, “We will be seeing you after the show.” Goodbyes are exchanged and she follows him through the large sets of doors to the eighth row seats. Close, but not close enough you have to crane your neck back or worry about getting spat on. He spared no expense, and why would he?

He lets her have the aisle seat, mostly because she sat in it before he could and he went ahead and humored her. She both appreciates it, and wishes he’d die in a hole. Dread creeps into her veins, the same type she hadn’t experienced since her mother dragged her to a showing of “Grease” on Broadway. She’s here, and there is no going back. 


	7. Chapter 7

The house lights dim, and the show begins. She could never deny that these people could really sing; it’s nothing short of amazing. Hannibal listens with rapt attention, and nothing makes sense to her. Everyone laughs suddenly, and she has no idea why or what could have just been done or said that’s funny.

It’s hard not to slouch, to sit up straight and not look like you don’t want to be there. Meetings at the Bureau gave her a lot of practice, but not quite enough. She sighs, and just focuses on the pretty noises. Surly no one would mind if she closed her eyes… Maybe they would just think she’s really into it.

She feels a hand on her leg then and opens her eyes to realize she’s been bouncing it, a bad habit that manifests during times of particularly intense boredom or restlessness. The heat from his hand seeps through the satin of her dress and she crosses her legs silently. His hand stays for a bit longer than she thinks necessary, but he turns his attention back to the show.

The act of refusing to let herself enjoy the show for the sake of being right and hating it the entire time just to hate it, eventually wears her down. She clings to it, the resentment of Hannibal for dragging her here and making her experience something different than what she experiences every day of her life.

Her mother always said she’d never met a more stubborn child. She said it as she shook her head and bandaged the countless scrapes and bruises Charlie earned from playing where she shouldn't, or climbing too high, or poking a stray cat one too many times with a stick.

The inevitable happens and she finally releases the oppositions she knew were petty, and allows herself to like the show. One seat over, Hannibal wants to roll his eyes; he never imagined she would take that long to get over herself. Hell, these are the most expensive seats to get a hold of and she’s been throwing a silent hissy fit over wearing a dress.

He could be more understanding, though. He’s undermined her position, greatly inhibited her ability to do her job, and forced her into a situation wholly uncomfortable in more ways than one. One could argue he’s been downright rude and inconsiderate. At the same time, she’s taken a great opportunity, a gesture of kindness, and thrown it in his face. And he just _knows_ she’ll make a fool of herself, and therefore him, in front of his group of opera friends.

Charlie settles in her seat for the final act. The star of the show, some European woman with a last name she isn't even going to attempt to pronounce, takes center stage in a striking blue dress covered in sequins and pearls. Music starts, and her voice warbles over the audience like silk. It’s lovely, even if it is in Italian or Latin or what have you.

Hannibal sighs next to her and she throws a side glance at him. It wasn’t a huffy, irritated sigh, but one filled with more longing and awe. Almost as soon as it began, the song is over. The pitter-pattering of first-clappers starts, but Hannibal is on his feet clapping enthusiastically. The second after, dozens of others follow suit. She stands and notices the wet sheen to his eyes and has to fight a grin. Looking around, a lot of people have tears in their eyes and she has to smile because she knows that none of these people would cry like she does when Simba tries to wake up his dead father in _The Lion King_.

“See, now was that so bad?” Hannibal asks as the singer bows gracefully and exits the stage.

“Not as bad as originally thought, but I’m not in a big hurry to do this again,” she tells him frankly. He more or less ignores it because he knows if he does it, she’ll follow, maybe kicking and screaming the entire way, but following nonetheless.

 

Five minutes later, Charlie is annoyed again. She wasn’t expecting the after-party in the balconies above the seats. Waiters and waitresses weave through the sea of formal dresses and fine suits carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres and serving drinks. She stands just a step behind him, quickly examining the room while he talks to his friends.

She feels his hand on her arm and she turns her attention to the conversation.

“And what do you do for a living, Charlie?” Donna asks swirling a glass of champagne.

“Oh, that’s classified,” she jokes like the best of them and they all laugh polite little laughs. She clears her throat, “I do a lot of paperwork, really. I work as a secretary.”

“Certainly not Hannibal’s though,” Donna says.

“Not at all, the police station uptown.”

Donna nods and Charlie could swear she hears the faintest whisper of “secretary indeed,” over the noise around her. Even as a little girl, she possessed an exceptional sense of hearing. She glances at Hannibal, who doesn’t seem to have heard anything, and shrugs it off.

“Well, how do a psychiatrist and a police station secretary end up at the opera? Seems like an odd match.”

 _Shit_. Charlie opens her mouth to spin off another lie and Hannibal silences her by plucking a flute of champagne off a passing tray and putting it in her hands.

“I had a few issues involving some neighbors and their affinity for loud parties very late at night. Charlie is remarkably good at her job and a valuable ally, I think.”

She knows he’s lying but the compliment makes her blush all the same. Compliments aren’t a frequent thing in her line of work, and her tiny celebration is interrupted by a muffled, “I bet she is.” She looks over at the two men, one nudging the other with his elbow and grinning like a twelve-year-old. She knows it’s about her, but she can’t guess why.

“I could never be a secretary,” Isobel shakes her head. “I don’t know how you do it, dear.”

Charlie smiles, “A lot of patience and anger relief at the gym.” John and Isobel’s date lave to get some more heavy-duty drinks from the bar and Donna taps her arm.

“If you ask me, a better thank you would be Hannibal’s cooking. Have you ever seen him cook, Charlie? It’s almost as entertaining as the opera.”

Charlie grins, “No but I have had one of his scones and it was more than lovely.” Hannibal is relieved she lied again, and almost impressed he didn’t even have to tell her to; she’s handling them well.

Out of the corner of her eye, Charlie can see John and the boy-toy approaching, each holding a glass of some dark, amber colored liquor Charlie thinks might be scotch, but she can hear John say to the other, “You can tell she’s not that expensive. The high-quality ones don’t get thrown around and cut up. But hey, maybe Hannibal knows something we don’t.”

Her eyes go wide then, and she understands what the comments have been about: They think she’s a whore. Or she’s Hannibal’s ‘escort’ for the evening. Indignation wells up in her chest and she’d kick all of them if he wasn’t there. She can’t decide if he knows or not, or even what to do about it. Surely someone priding himself on manners wouldn’t let a name go slandered like that. Then again, he _knows_ people better than they know themselves. She sips the champagne to hide her scowl, and the sip turns into a large gulp. The bubbles sting on the way down and she’s brought back to the conversation by Donna putting her hand on her shoulder and whispers into her ear loud enough for everyone to hear. “Charlie, darling, I think your stocking is running… There’s just the slightest little bulge on your leg and if you want I can point you to the restroom and you can take care of it.”

Charlie’s brow furrows, now angry and confused, then she understands. “Oh, no Donna, I don’t wear stockings. This ‘little bulge’ is my gun holster.”

Donna gasps, “Excuse me-”

Beside her, Hannibal closes his eyes and clenches his jaw. “You see, I lied to you all because Hannibal is embarrassed of me, god knows why. I’m just an FBI agent assigned as his body guard while a case is being resolved.” Her words sound level and polite but they drip venom, a skill learned in dealing with difficult civilians politely but with a fair amount of threat. “So, I’m here in this god awful dress with a gun strapped to my thigh _just in case_ some nut job decides it’s their night to attempt murder.” She turns to John’s wide eyes, “I am not a secretary, I’m not a prostitute, and I am, however, the holder of the best shot record at the bureau since ’97.” He shrinks visibly and Isobel’s date looks as if he’s about to be beaten mercilessly. They recoil, and there’s nothing but silence. Beside her, Hannibal takes a deep breath in through his nose and lets it out slowly. He expected an outburst, but not that.

Donna scowls and her lips form a thin, hard, line, “Hannibal, if I was you, I’d request a new guard or whatever she is. This one is too ornery.”

“Lady, I can and will detain you for 72 hours without charge and I will watch the hobo’s and druggies harass you until dawn while I eat Doritos. Don’t test me.” Charlie tips the rest of her drink back and shoves the empty glass into Donna’s hands. “Dr. Lecter, should you need me, I’ll be on the balcony.” And with that, she stalks away, parting the crowd like a shark in a school of fish.

They watch her go and Hannibal licks his lips. “How very unfortunate,” John muses.

“I can’t believe the nerve of her,” Donna says scornfully and deposits Charlie’s empty champagne glass on a passing tray.

“Is her having a gun here even legal? Could we report her for threatening with a lethal weapon?” Isobel frets.

“Is it true, Hannibal? Is she really FBI?” Donna asks smirking skeptically.

“Yes, she certainly is,” he tells them firmly. “I might have demanded too much of her this time around and I’m surprised she went as easy on you as she did.” Like anything he plans, he just wanted to see what would happen. Some of Charlie’s behavior he expected, some he didn’t.

“How remarkably unprofessional,” Isobel takes a glass of wine.

“That scar was ghastly too,” Donna says, still fuming about the detention threat. “You should have made her cover it, and then maybe your ruse would have been successful.”

His lip twitches with irritation, “That scar she got on duty during the shooting last Saturday, and I wouldn’t dare ask her to cover it, or any of her scars, for any reason. Now, I must excuse myself, as I have a meal to prepare.”

Isobel smiles, completely oblivious to exactly how displeased he is with all of them “I’m glad to hear you’re hosting again, Hannibal,” she says placing her hand on his arm. “It’s been so long, you simply must invite us.”

“Isobel, I doubt I will ever have any of you,” he tells her and shakes her hand away. “You have all been exceptionally rude to Ms. Mark, and I do not appreciate your implications of who you thought she was or that I’d ever associate with such a person. Good night.” With that, he turns on his heel and walks away to find Charlie, his mind beginning the works of accidental deaths for the graceless quartet. 

Isobel huffs, “Well, how do you like that?”

 “She’s much too young for him anyway.”

 

Finding Charlie takes little time as she’s the only person leaning on the stone wall of the balcony alone, that is, except the three empty glasses beside her.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” he says putting his hands in his pockets.

“I don’t,” she says eying him warily, ready for him to politely rip her a new one. “But I figure I should have one last drink before Crawford skins me alive.” she trails off looking at the people walking on the sidewalk below.

“Looks like you’ve had four.”

“No those were just fizzy waters, I think,” she smiles grimly holding up her glass. “This one is the real stuff though.”

“Who says Crawford will find out, anyway?” he says leaning on the railing next to her.

She blinks in surprise, “You’re not going to tell him?”

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he smirks. “I didn’t like them much to begin with.” It’s true. He grew tired of them and Charlie happened along just in time to dislodge him from any obligations to them ever again.

“So, you really didn’t know what they were saying?” she absentmindedly itches at the pink scar on her arm.

“I wondered at it, but you figured it out before I did.” He lies for the sake of making her feel better; he knew full well that bringing her dressed as she is would raise their eyebrows.

“I’m sorry I went about it so unprofessionally. Threatening a civilian with a gun and 72 hours of detention is generally frowned upon, even if they deserved it,” she takes another large sip of her drink.

“You’re right, but I doubt anyone will ever know about it but us,” he says offering his arm, “I think it’s about time we left”. After some hesitation, she takes his arm in hers and blows it off as a big, quiet middle finger to his former friends. She flicks them off on the way out for good measure.

They wait outside for the valet to bring the car around while harsh winds rip through the buildings. It’s almost 11:30 PM in November and Charlie won’t let herself shiver in her dress, but she’s absolutely freezing.

“Charlie, are you sure you’re alright without a coat?” The only acceptable coat for a place like the opera she used as a burial shroud the previous Saturday.

“No, Doctor, I’m fine. I didn’t plan this out very well, is all,” she stands far enough away from him to be considered ‘with’ him, but not close enough to be his friend.

He opens her door when the car arrives, tips the driver, and settles into his own seat. Even with the heat on full blast, the chill leather of the seats does more damage than the outside winds. He shrugs his coat off in the security of the car while they sit at a red light and passes it to her. She tentatively takes it and drapes it over her shoulders. The heavy warmth surrounds her and the musky scent with just a little juniper wafting off the collar lightens her head.

She doesn’t notice he drove directly to his house until they’re pulling into his driveway. She should make him take her home, but she decides he brought her here for a reason, so, she follows him inside. In the foyer, he takes his coat back and hangs it on one of many hooks. It’s almost instinctual, how his first move is to the kitchen. He drapes the suit jacket and bowtie over the back of a chair and Charlie tugs at the skirt of her dress.

“I should have packed a bag,” she says kicking off her shoes.

He regards her quietly and then, “Just a moment, I’ll be right back.” He leaves her in the kitchen and she hears feet on the stairs and doors open and close. He returns holding a neatly folded set of clothes. “They might be too large, but they’re definitely more comfortable.” He hands her blue silk pajama pants and a black t-shirt. She could have snorted; the idea that he might own something as casual as a t-shirt seemed almost silly, and what’s sillier, she’s going to wear it. Hell, she owns more black t-shirts than she cared to count, but at this point, she would gladly accept a cardboard box. “You can change in my study if you’d like, or I can show you to a room upstairs.”

“I’ll opt for the study, I guess,” she says just a little nervously. The only rooms she’s seen of his entire house are the kitchen, living room, and the bathroom under the stairs. Now, she’s going to undress in an entirely new one and the little voice in the back of her mind screams for her to leave if she wants to keep her job.

She comes back to the kitchen dressed in his clothes, the shirt tucked in and the pants cinched tight. Her dress he hung and zipped up in a cleaner’s bag. The unmistakable _pop_ of a bottle of wine being opened greets her ears and the smell of meat cooking is already heavy in the air.

“I feel a little less ridiculous now,” she says shaking her hips and watching the baggy pants flap around.

The corners of his mouth turn up and he pours the bottle through an aerator and into a coiffeur. “The dress suited you.”

She blinks at the blatant compliment, Hannibal-speak for looking pretty damn fine. “Be that as it may, please don’t ever make me wear it, or anything like it, ever again.” He nods sagely, ‘lesson learned’. “Uhm, thank you, too. It really wasn’t that bad at all, any of it, even those people thinking I was a prostitute. I’ve been called much worse… I’m just being stubborn. I think I hate the memories more than anything.”

“Did things not end well with your mother?” she watches him take the cucumbers she sliced this morning and assemble an impressive salad.

“It’s nothing like that. My mother wanted nothing but the best for me, and she worked hard and provided what she could. She wanted her version of the best for me, though.”

“Let me guess… Marrying at a young age, becoming a housewife, raising a couple children, and that’s that?”

She chuckles, “I think she just didn’t want her daughter in a line of work with such high chances of getting mortally wounded… Can I help at all?”

“Yes if you would peel this broccoli, I appreciate it,” he gives her a colander of chopped broccoli from one of the massive refrigerators. “What had you do it?”

She shrugs, “I like paperwork and bad coffee.” She smiles at the sharp exhale of an almost-laugh behind her and holds a piece of broccoli between her thumb and forefinger. The tiny florets feel soft and tender, not waxy and tough like the plants from where she shops. “Nah, but really, I guess I just like protecting people. I haven’t done it literally like this in a while, but I guess it was ultimately what called my name.” She laughs then, at a memory from she doesn’t know how long ago. “I remember the first time I got shot. I wasn’t even a real cop, just a sketch artist, working in a shady part of town. It was a .22, practically a sling shot. God, you would’ve thought I lost an arm for how my mother reacted.”

“Mothers will do that,” he says without the experience to really back it up. She hears it and changes the subject with the first thing that popped into her mind, something that’s been bothering her all evening:

“You looked in the Playboy box, didn’t you.” She doesn’t ask it like a real question, because she knows he did.

“You’ve caught me; I simply couldn’t resist, my apologies,” he takes the meat off the stove, plating it on a fine white platter and drizzling sauce over it.

“You’re not sorry, you’re just sorry I caught you,” she shakes her head and feels glad he works behind her so he can’t see the flush to her cheeks. “It’s what I get for giving you free reign of my closet.”

The tough bark of the broccoli lies in a little pile on a cutting board and Hannibal sweeps up the prepped vegetables, throwing them in a pan of oil and garlic.  “Two for two,” he says and she can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Yeah, yeah, for the record, I wasn’t an official Bunny. My ears were Halloween props from a costume store because I wasn’t allowed the real thing.”

“Protecting Mr. Hefner, I presume?” He takes something out of the oven she didn’t know was there and sets it on a trivet.

“Indeed, I wasn’t allowed all the details, but there was a man that allegedly had it out for him, and a lot of other nasty things were suspected, but circumstantial evidence is never enough, so, we had to catch him in the act.”

“So, you went undercover,” He’s more focused on the cooking than the conversation, but Charlie goes on anyway.

“Yep, and no one expected the newbie to put up a fight. They all thought I was fat, but really, I just had two guns hidden under my outfit.”

“If you had guns, what was the letter opener for?” He disappears out of the room with plates and silverware and comes back for napkins and glasses.

“Guns don’t always work,” she tells him when he returns for platters of food. She follows with the bowl of salad and into the dining room. What looks like long, thin, antlers are just willow branches snapped off and painted white. Orchids mix with sage and jewel-toned flowers amidst thatches of moss and long, thin, gracefully drooping grasses. She doubts very much he bought it already made, and knows she couldn’t manage something so _HGTV_ without intensive classes. This feeling is normal now, and she’s used to it.

Wine is poured, candles lit. Two weeks ago, she would have laughed at anyone that told her she’d be here. “Tell me what you think of this,” he says handing her a glass of wine. She sniffs it, because she’s pretty sure that’s what you’re supposed to do, and takes a sip. It’s not horrible, but it’s not great, either.

He’s looking at her expectantly and she licks her lips, “That is uh… definitely wine.” He get’s that mildly amused but somewhat annoyed look on his face she’s been seeing a lot of lately. “I’m sorry but… I really don’t drink.”

“Try it again,” and she does. “This is a chardonnay from New York, and if you’ll pay attention to it, you’ll notice it’s rather mild, there’s some citrus, some oak.”

She swishes it around in her mouth, shouldn’t she know this? Adults in their mid-thirties are supposed to know how to drink wine, and all the little things you’re supposed to taste. She feels like a child with a toy gun strapped to her leg. She considers herself privileged to be invited to this table, she just wishes he would stop being excellent at everything. The fact that she’s killed a grown man with nothing but a ballpoint pen and that he certainly has not comforts her and she drinks some more.

A delightful buzz fills her head and she forgets about everything except how fuck mothering wonderful the food is. “For as insufferable as she was, Donna was right about one thing: You can work a kitchen. I bet you could write a book,” she says taking a bite of the roasted potatoes that are not too dry and not too buttery or wet. The simple meal lies spread out on the dark wood table.

“You are too kind,” he says recalling the time he started a cook book, but then stopped because no one would ever follow the recipes as designed. Charlie’s face has a habit of freckling when she drinks and he studies the dusting of flecks across her cheeks and nose while she neatly pushes tomatoes to the side of her plate.

“Not a fan of tomatoes, I see.”

She laughs quietly, “Sorry, but I’ve had an aversion to tomatoes since childhood. Tomatoes and olives.”

“I’ll agree that olives can be an acquired taste,” he says pouring more wine into her glass.

“What is this meat anyway?” she inspects a juicy morsel speared on her fork.

“It’s pork,” he tells her and the familiar thrill of satisfaction runs through him when she takes an appreciative bite of human flesh. “The marinade gives the meat a taste many are not suited to.”

“And what’s so special about this marinade?” she raises an eyebrow over a bite of salad.

“Well, I can’t give away all my secrets now, can I?” his eyes glitter with mischief.

“Fine, be that way,” she says sarcastically, her eyes wondering to a clock on the mantle. “Ooooh my god it’s nearly one in the morning.”

“And?”

She turns her head to give him an exasperated look, but it turns into one of those odd, make-it-or-break-it points in a relationship, and she looks at him. Really _looks at him,_ instead of the space he occupies or the object he manipulates. His eyes are dark and flashing in the soft light of the dining room and one corner of his mouth is tilted up just enough and he’s beautiful. Just _fucking_ gorgeous. It’s ok to like him, she tells herself, but acting on it is a bad idea. She swallows hard before pushing the ever intruding lock of hair behind her ear. “Nothing, I guess.”

He looks at her, too, but less intensely, because he studied her multiple times already out of habit. The candles on the table make her honey-colored eyes like gold and darken the stitches on her arm. She is, by absolutely no means, his equal. Such a status is impossible to obtain for anyone that ever was, is, or will be, in existence, but she’s just valuable enough that he would regret killing her. His voice is smooth as ever, “Would you care for dessert?”

“Yeah,” she says tearing her eyes away from him and watching the pink bubbles in her wine glass pop. “Yeah, that sound’s pretty good.”

He stands and collects his plate, and she does the same. He tells her he could do that for her and she says she knows, but doesn’t give her plate to him. His mouth turns down slightly at her stubbornness, but no extra effort is given.

She sets her own plate in the sink after he does and watches him open the big drawer freezer. He notes his frozen reserves of rude are close to running low, and hopes this killer is caught soon so he can go shopping without supervision. A metal container is extracted and set on the counter next to two bowls and spoons.

“Ice cream? When it’s threatening to snow outside?”

“I find there is no better time for it,” he tells her looking up from careful, measured scooping. “One scoop or two?”

“Just one for now,” she says tugging on the cords tying his pants snug around her waist. “I ate a too much.”

His eyes light up again, “A common phenomenon in my home, but absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. There are few feelings better than that of a full belly.”

“True, Doctor, but the lines between full belly and food coma are very thin.” He almost laughs at that, and Charlie feels a little accomplished for it.

They eat right there in the kitchen, leaning on opposite sides of the long counter in the middle of the cavernous space. It’s quiet, save the gentle clinking of spoons against porcelain, and they take turns studying each other when the other isn’t looking. Her short hair fans around her face and long eyelashes cast soft shadows on her flushed cheeks. Not one hair dares fall out of place on his head, but the barest hint of chest hair is visible when he leans on the counter the way he does.

“Do you ever get lonely, being in such a huge house all by yourself?” She never would ask this question in a sober state, but her cheeks are still pink and dotted with freckles.

His brow furrows but his voice doesn’t change its fluidity, “No, I can’t say I ever have.” He takes her empty bowl and puts it in the sink next to her plate that still has the rejected tomatoes on the side. “I’ve never had a problem with being alone and I like having my own space. I can invite people into it when I please and just as quickly turn them out.”

“Hmmnn…” she shrugs. “I have cats and I can barely stand my own little townhome sometimes. I usually have music going, just to have something to fill the space.”

“Speaking of your cats, the one knocking over your alarm clock is the portly one,” he says matter-of-fact.

She chuckles, “’Portly’? Now isn’t the time for political correctness, Doctor, my cat is a fat bastard.”

“The politically correct term is ‘metabolically challenged’, thank you.”

“I have to be politically correct every day, _thank you_ ,” she crosses her arms in mock indignation. “If I want to call my cat a fat bastard then I will, because he is.”

“He seemed nice enough,” he starts the water to wash dishes and makes a note not to get her around alcohol ever again because she swears too much for his liking.

“How you got to pet him the first time you met, I don’t understand. I live with him and most days, I’m lucky if I get to scratch behind his ears.”

“Consider this, then, maybe if you stopped referring to him as ‘fat bastard’, he would like you more.”

She blinks, confused, “If I… What?”

“Charlie, how likely are you to hang around someone who calls you rude names?” He punctuates his question my flicking on the garbage disposal and sending her discarded tomatoes down the drain in a loud roar.

 “Not… very likely…” she says, feeling like a chastised kid.

“Exactly.”

“But he’s just a cat,” she argues though she knows it’s pointless.

“And you assume he doesn’t know when he’s not liked?” He says handing her a plate to dry.

She snickers at that. “Sorry,” she says to his questioning look and carefully wipes the plate dry, “but you reminded me of the thing Crawford says about assuming. I’ve heard him explain it to trainees a hundred times over.” He gets right in their faces with a legal pad and writes the word as he heatedly tells them assuming makes an ‘ASS’ out of ‘U’ and ‘ME’.

“I’ve heard him. One would think that someone who’d heard it so often would heed the words more,” he hands her two spoons and she grunts.

“One would think I could dry dishes without by relationship with my pets being professionally analyzed. Will my insurance cover this session of pet counseling?” They share the same coy, sarcastic smile.

“I never charge for the first session,” he hands off the last dish for her to dry and she stows the plate with its brothers in the high cabinets. Looking at his watch, he tells her that it’s probably about time he took her home.

“Yes,” she agrees haltingly. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.” She gives the kitchen one last look on the way out, the appliances gleaming in the darkened room. The coat his hers again for the ride in her car and she feels like an idiot for the bajillionth time that night: dressed in his pajamas, wearing his coat, holding her dress, purse, and shoes, and bolting to the car over the cold of his driveway. “Just take your sweet damn time,” she mutters in the freezing car seat as he glides from his front door to his place in the car.

Before they pull out of the driveway, Charlie sends a text to Bosco, prompting him to be at her home to escort Hannibal back to his. For once, she’s glad for his quiet, unfaltering neglect of people’s personal matters. They wait in his car until she sees Bosco’s headlights turn into the parking lot.

“Here I go,” she says opening the car door and shivering in the burst of cold.

“Goodnight Charlie,” he says warmly.

“Remember, it’s my day off tomorrow, and thanks again for today.”

“You’re welcome. We’ll have to do it again sometime.”

She nods and shuts the car door. Hannibal watches her wave to Bosco and makes sure she’s safely inside before driving away.

 

Behind her locked door, Charlie sheds the pants and the gun holster and greets her despondent cats. She scoops up Bingo and holds her high in the air, “I’m getting into some deep shit, here, girl.” The cat’s cockeyed scare expresses little empathy and more hunger. “It’s not bad to like him, right?” she argues filling the food bowls. “I just can’t, like, actually fuck him. That’s a bad move career-wise.” Both cats purr over their food and tandem petting. “But fuck me this whole day has been a bad move career-wise.”

Laying on the kitchen floor next to them, she scratches Feldman’s rump, “You’re not a fat bastard. You’re just big boned. Or you have a gland problem… Whatever they say.” The metabolically challenged tom meows and Charlie huffs. “I think I might need a psychiatrist.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned to:  
> FINALLY meet this bitch that's KILLING everyone!  
> See Crawford get pissed at Charlie AGAIN!  
> Read Will and Charlie have a talk about Hannibal!  
> A funeral for that dead guy!


End file.
